Tolerating Too Well
by gracedUSA
Summary: What happens when there's more than just physical wounds? Unfortunately I don't own Burn Notice...just having fun with characters. Reviews appreciated! I'm new at this!


It wasn't supposed to turn out this way.

Yes, getting shot or stabbed or, if he was being honest, killed were occupational hazards. Domestic violence wasn't supposed to be. Cover IDs weren't supposed to come with that kind of consequences.

But this time everything had gone wrong - or, not everything, just the one thing that really mattered. Sure, they'd recovered the painting as requested. Sure, the client would pay and be pleased. Sure, no one's ID had fallen through and no one had gotten arrested.

But standing there, staring at Fiona's bruised and bloody form sitting on the plush, once immaculate, ivory carpeting Michael couldn't find a single positive.

She'd called when she was supposed to. Promptly when their mark passed out from a drug slipped into his bourbon. She hadn't mentioned that before the sedative took over the wealthy, cocky playboy with a penchant for stolen art and illicit love had decided kissing wasn't good enough and beaten her with the fireplace tongs.

For once, Michael was stymied.

He knew Fi needed help.

He just didn't know how to give it.

He could take her to a hospital.

But she hated hospitals.

And he didn't like to think how she'd react to one in an already emotionally compromised state.

He just wanted to hold her and tell her everything was going to be okay.

He had no idea if everything was going to be okay.

He had no idea if his touch would ignite more trauma after she'd been abused.

So he just paced, back and forth, reaching out to her, reconsidering. On and on.

Until Sam, painting in hand, walked into the room.

"What are you waiting…" the ex-Seal began. Stopping when he saw the blood on the carpet and dropping the painting instantly when he saw Fi curled on the floor.

Sam didn't wait. He didn't second guess himself.

He knelt down next to her, tentatively laid one big, gentle hand on her back and said her name.

"Fiona, buddy, you still with me?"

Michael still couldn't move. Couldn't react. His mind didn't compute what he was seeing.

Fiona nodded, moving her hands away from her tearstained face. Gazing at Sam - her wide eyes vacant.

"He hurt you?"

She nodded again.

"Where?"

Fiona ran a hand along her ribs, looking startled and a little confused when it came away from her black dress coated in blood.

"Fi I need to look at your ribs. I'm gonna unzip your dress. Is that okay?"

She nodded. There was blood on her face too, and dripping down her leg – already showing bruises even through her tanned skin.

And Michael started to worry again. This time over whether it was wrong that she hadn't spoken. Over whether some trigger in her mind had just stopped working.

Sam unzipped the skimpy, black chiffon garment and pulled back the flimsy fabric to reveal a blossoming bruise and a nasty stab wound.

That was when Michael's instincts kicked in. An internal injury from a dirty, wrought iron fireplace tool was serious. It could mean any number of things from a collapsed lung to a ruptured artery. It would certainly mean an infection in a matter of hours. Between him and Sam, they could handle it. But they needed Fiona talking, and conscious, and with them every step.

"Fi," he said, kneeling down beside her and brushing strands of her sweaty, hair sprayed locks back from her unnaturally pale cheeks, "I need you to stay with me."

She nodded again, her eyes registering his face and showing some spark for the first time since they'd found her.

"I need you to tell me what happened while Sam looks at that wound. We can patch you up faster if we have a heads up on what's wrong," he told her, his voice quiet and gentle, but still carrying the full gravitas of his request.

"He hit me a couple times, with his fists. That's how I got the…" her breath caught a little and her eyes started to slip closed.

Michael kissed her face, acting on instinct and feeling immense relief when she leaned into him and didn't revisit her panic.

"I need you to stay with me Fi. I need you to keep explaining," he said gently.

"How I got the black eye and the cuts. And then he grabbed the tongs and hit me twice across the ribs. I fell on the second one, that's the one that penetrated…"

She trailed off again, yelping as Sam pressed alcohol soaked gauze against her side.

"You're okay. You're okay," Michael repeated over and over.

"Then he kicked me maybe ten times, maybe fifteen I guess, before he passed out. I put the cuffs on him and called you then I realized what'd happened and…then I ended up here."

Her voice was detached as though she was only registering breathing and speaking. Not what had actually happened to her.

"It didn't pierce your chest cavity and I don't think there's any internal bleeding. But we need to get you home and get this cleaned and get some antibiotics," Sam said, sitting back on his heels and wiping his bloody hands on his legs, "you've got at least four broken ribs by my count."

"Home would be nice," Fiona said, her voice cracking, the pain registering, the tears coming. As Michael lifted her gently into his arms she started to sob, her slim frame trembling and her tears falling in warm, wet spatters on his shirt.

Fiona passed out in Michael's arms on the way home, her body relaxing into his embrace, her frame still trembling even in sleep, somehow refusing to truly surrender to unconsciousness. There was pain on her face as she rested, but there was something else – something Michael wasn't used to seeing – fear.

"Do you think I should be holding her like this?" Michael asked suddenly, his voice breaking the silence of the Caddy.

"What are you talking about?" Sam replied.

"I want to hold her. To know she's okay. But she was just attacked by a drunk faux-lover. Do you think…"

"Mikey, brother, I saw the way she reached for you. She needs you."

"Right."

While Sam went back to his house for a med kit with the antibiotics and debridement supplies they'd need, Michael lay Fiona down on their bed and started systematically stripping her bloody, ruined dress. He knew he'd get flack for destroying an Armani or Valentino or whatever it was. Right now he didn't care. Right now he'd pay good money to hear Fiona yell at him.

She roused a little as he was easing her into one of his shirts.

"You okay?" he murmured, brushing a hand against her cheek and feeling a wave of panic at her temperature. The wound had gotten infected already and her fever was spiking.

"Hurts," she whispered.

"I know. Do you need to cry?"

It seemed like an odd question, but it was a valid one. It was horrible to feel that much pain and try to hold in tears. He'd sobbed on operating tables in field hospitals more than enough times to know how good it could feel to let all the stress hormones drain away, at least for a moment.

Fiona didn't reply, she closed her eyes and covered her face with one hand, swallowing hard.

"Hey," Michael said quietly, "what is it? You can tell me anything Fi. Anything."

"He tried to rape me Michael," Fiona said – the words empty – emotionless.

"But he didn't?"

"No. When I said I wanted to slow down a bit he started hitting me."

"And?"

"I think if he hadn't passed out he would have waited till I was unconscious then done whatever he pleased."

"I'm sorry Fi."

"I know."

"I have to debride it Michael," Sam whispered.

"Sam…you've got her trying to tolerate broken ribs on Tylenol. There's no way…" Michael protested quietly.

"I don't want her to die Mike, and if this gets infected any worse that's just what's gonna happen," Sam replied, "you with me?"

"Fine."

Michael shifted Fiona from their bed down to the floor, per a mutual, silent agreement not to get blood all over the mattress. It was likely Fiona had undergone a mechanical debridement at some point in her IRA career. But Michael wasn't about to ask.

Sam flushed the wound with saline and set a wet dressing, trying to stay upbeat, trying to keep Fiona awake as long as he could, trying not to think about how much pain he would be causing her the next evening.

"All set sister," he said, sitting back on his heels.

"That wasn't so bad," Fiona replied, settling in on her less battered side and curling her arm under her head.

Sam and Michael exchanged a worried glance, both well aware that the pain hadn't even started. With a quick nod between them Sam went to go check the perimeter again then buy more gauze, while Michael lay down next to Fiona, stroking her hair and placing a gentle kiss on her forehead.

"Get some sleep," he whispered, "I'm not going anywhere."

"Should we debride it while she's still out?" Michael asked, "Less trauma?"

"More panic when the pain hits," Sam replied, kneeling on the floor beside the tiny, Irish spitfire and contemplating their options. Neither of them wanted to do this to her, but they didn't want her risking sepsis either.

"You want me to wake her?" Michael asked.

"Would you brother?"

Michael nodded, knelt down and ran his fingertips along Fiona's hairline, whispering her name. She roused slowly, but when she came to she was alert, awake, fully present.

"Time for the not so fun part," Michael said, trying to stay calm, trying not to make things worse by worrying about her.

"Of cleaning the wound?" Fiona muttered, rubbing her eyes.

"Yep," Sam said, "it's gonna hurt."

"Bite on this," Michael offered, handing her tie folded to the size of a playing card, "and squeeze my hand as hard as you need, just try not to fight it."

"It's just gonna be tugging at first," Sam said, starting before Fiona could protest, "and you may pass out. That's okay. Just don't panic…"

And as he got past the edge of the wound Fiona did just that. Her back arched instinctively trying to get away from the pain. She bit down hard, sweat beading on her forehead, squeezing Michael's hand so hard he thought she might crack a bone. Her eyes closed tightly she reached up her free hand to get the tie out of her mouth. And she screamed.

"Please," the single word was broken, terrified. It didn't sound like it could possibly come from the IRA gun-runner they knew.

"Sam," Michael's voice held a hint of panic.

"Nothing I can do Mike," the SEAL replied.

Fiona's breathing was getting uneven. Sam was almost done, but her pain tolerance was too high – she wasn't passing out.

"Sam she's hitting a crisis point…Sam…she's gonna go into shock…Sam!" Michael insisted as his friend finished the job. A rush of blood wet the sheet and Sam promptly grabbed a wad of gauze to clean things up. Fiona was semi-conscious, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her eyes still closed, still gripping Michael's hand.

Michael ran a wet rag across Fiona's sweaty forehead, whispering her name, trying to bring her back to him, praying shock wasn't going to take her.

"I'm sorry," he murmured as she opened her eyes, "I'm sorry."

For a solid twelve hours Fiona wouldn't let Sam touch her.

"I know that was necessary, but..." she trailed off when Sam apologized and asked if he could change the bandage.

"But you don't want me anywhere near that cut do you?"

"No."

Sam tossed the roll of gauze to Michael and shrugged.

"I'm gonna go bring Madeline up to speed. Then I'm anonymously calling to report our little playboy as a sexual predator. You two have things under control?" he asked.

Fiona just stared, eyes wide, expressionless. Michael nodded.

The wound was healing well. And Fiona wasn't showing the telltale signs of emotional trauma Michael kept watching for. Her hands weren't shaking. She wasn't having panic attacks. But something in her eyes was wrong.

He successfully shrugged off the worry for the rest of the day, but when he woke up to Fiona's tortured scream at three in the morning, Michael decided he couldn't let things go any longer.

"Fi," he said, taking her by the shoulders, gently, but hard enough to wake her up.

Her eyes flew open, but she didn't relax, her body stayed stiff in his arms.

"It was just a nightmare Fi," Michael said quietly.

"Course it was," Fi replied, laying down, trying to rearrange herself to get comfortable in spite of her injuries.

"Do you need to talk this through Fi?"

"Why would I need to talk it through?" she turned over, putting her back to him.

"Fiona you were sexually assaulted - that requires taking through," Michael replied, sounding harsher than he meant to.

And with those words Fiona sat bolt upright, somehow getting through the agony that must have exploded in her ribs. And she smacked him, hard, harder than Michael would have thought possible for as hurt as she was.

She didn't speak, didn't look at him. She just lay back down and drifted off, leaving Michael even more worried than before - with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach he couldn't shake.

Sam got back from Madeline's shortly after Michael and Fiona's little episode. He observed Michael's split lip and was about to ask what happened when Michael raised his hands in surrender.

"Something's wrong," he said simply, "she just woke up screaming."

"And when you tried to console her?" Sam prompted, "Assuming you tried to console her..."

"Told me off the slapped me."

"Hey brother...that's her coping mechanism. Whatever works."

"That's just it Sam," Michael said urgently, "it doesn't work. She's not processing this. She cried for five minutes. The physical wound might be healing but the emotional damage is festering."

"Ain't nothing I can do about that Mikey," Sam said, raising his own hands now.

It was three days later when Sam declared Fiona's wound stable enough for her to start getting back to regular activities. Her first request was to shower. Michael doubted the viability of that option, since she was still unsteady on her feet, but he obliged - anything to erase the haunted look in her eyes.

He helped her up, helped her get undressed, trying to ignore the way her figure was distorted from all the bruising. And then, as the hot water started, washing away the blood and the sweat and the tears that stained her skin, suddenly she was sobbing.

Fiona curled into his arms, her slim body shaking, her face pressed into his chest.

"You're okay," he whispered, "I've got you. And Fiona no matter what no one's ever taking you away."

And as he whispered those words he wished he could make them fully true – he wished he could protect her – from all the problems he'd brought into her world – from all the problems she'd created for herself.

"I love you," he said gently as he felt her start to relax, her tears mixing with the hot water from the shower, her head slumping against him, her whole body going limp as the adrenaline wore off, the pain kicked in and she surrendered, trusting him with all her vulnerable fears.


End file.
